


Walnut exterior, dragon heart(string) core, Unyielding.

by Zaeli_Echo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-02 17:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10223540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaeli_Echo/pseuds/Zaeli_Echo
Summary: Just how I imagined things would go down if Sherlock and John were accepted to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m a _what?_ ” Blue eyes wide and normally-steady voice trembling, John Watson really wasn’t sure if what he was hearing was correct.

 

There came a sigh from the tall figure in front of him. “A wizard. Abracadabra. Alakazam. That type thing. Your ears work perfectly well.” An umbrella was clutched in the man’s right hand, and he tapped it twice, seeming impatient. “I’m to take you to collect your supplies before you are shipped off to Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Do come along. I’m on a rather tight schedule.” Definitely impatient.

 

“U-um… What about mum and da?” John stuttered.

 

“I’ve already explained this situation to them. They trust me to take care of you until you reach your destination, which - may I say - is probably the safest place you’ll ever find yourself.” The brolly tapped twice more.

 

“O-okay… Where are we going?”

 

“Diagon Alley.” The young man held open the door and gestured to the open door of the waiting car.

 

 _In for the penny, I suppose._ John thought, reluctantly slipping into the sleek black sedan.

  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


The brolly tapped again, but instead of on the floor, it was on a brick wall above a dumpster. Five staccato taps, followed by a rough grating sound. An archway appeared in front of John and his escort, who had given his name as Mike (John got the feeling that he was lying).

 

“Whoa…” John breathed. A wide cobbled street unrolled to either side of the archway, and it was chock-full of people in flowing robes and fluttering scarves.

 

‘Mike’ just watched the eleven-year-old, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Brilliant, don’t you think?” There was a smile in his voice more than on his face.

 

“Bloody hell… Is this Diagon Alley?” John was still rather breathless.

 

“Indeed it is, Mr. Watson. Take a right.” ‘Mike’ gestured with the dark wooden tip of his umbrella.

 

Rather stupefied, John did as he was told, following the occasional directions of his escort until he was directed into a shop sheltered by a pair of dark awnings. Ollivander’s, read the simple script strewn across each awning.

 

“Ah! Mister Watson. I figured I’d be seeing you sometime soon. My name is Ollivander, as you already know.” A wisp of a man with a shock of curly white hair came bustling out the back as John fiddled nervously at the front desk.

 

“Nice to meet you, sir.” John mumbled.

 

“Ah, what a pleasant lad. I think I know exactly what to get out for you.” Ollivander chirped happily, sweeping off into the back of his shop, returning with a stack of boxes. “Let’s start with this one. Cyprus, nine inches, unicorn hair core, nice and springy.” John gingerly lifted the wand out of the box. “Give it a flick.” Ollivander instructed.” John did so, rather confused. Nothing happened.

 

“No, of course not. How about this one? Yew, 11 inches, mermaid fin core.” John gave that one a flick, and a lightbulb exploded. “Absolutely not.” Ollivander scolded himself. “Maybe this one. Hawthorne, 11 ½ inches, veela hair core, reasonably pliable.” The jar of water on the desk exploded this time, splashing ‘Mike’ all down the front of his suit. He didn’t find that amusing.

 

“One last one in this pile…” Ollivander’s voice dropped to barely over a whisper. “Perhaps... Walnut, 13 ¼ inches, dragon heartstring core, unyielding…” The wandmaker went quiet as John lifted the wand from its box. He wrote his name in cursive in the air, a pulse of energy racing through his veins, and the dark wood left in its path a shimmering red trail.

 

“How interesting.” The wandmaker mused, a mysterious half-smile gracing his features. “The wand chooses the wizard, mister Watson. You have some very interesting qualities to be chosen by this particular wand.” ‘Mike’ paid Ollivander and led John out of the shop, moving from address to address, buying this and that. “Required items.” He explained. By the time John had shaken himself out of his stupor, he held a pewter cauldron filled with various things ranging from a rather handsome rooster-feather quill (accompanied by three colors of ink), to an ordinary-looking set of textbooks, to a dark cloak and a pair of matching robes.

  
“John. _John._ ” ‘Mike’ was trying to get the boy’s attention.


	2. Fleeting meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself a fitting pet, meeting Sherlock in the process (Hint, He's an Animangus).

Muffled chatter permeated through the glass as a small black cat sat at the window, washing a paw with long thorough licks. The set of bells on the door jingled cheerfully as the door to Eeylops Owl Emporium was opened. The quiet mumbling coming from the various cages dropped a bit as a tall young man with an umbrella led a shorter boy in a dark leather coat through the door.

 

“Here, you will choose an owl. They act as the messengers in the magical community, carrying letters between here and there and wherever they are sent.” The black cat rolled his eyes and flicked his tail, standing up and weaving about the shorter boy’s legs, keeping up the ruse. This boy was going to Hogwarts, from the looks of it, and he had to gauge his reaction to magic things happening when they weren’t necessarily expected.

 

“Oh! How pretty! Hello kitty-cat.” The blonde wasn’t really paying attention to ‘Mike’, his attention instead focused on the little cat. He knelt and carefully held out a hand for him to sniff.  _ Continuing the ruse. _ The cat thought ruefully. He rubbed his cheek along the small hand, forcing a steady purr. Surprisingly, the fingers scratching behind his ear and under his chin were gentle and pleasant. The purr wasn’t forced anymore.  _ Now for the test.  _ The cat thought, bounding away and pushing itself up on it’s hind legs, facing the boy, before allowing himself to change forms, his point of view changing as he got taller. He kept his eyes on the blonde’s face the entire time. His expression changed from mild disappointment to somewhere between awe and exasperation.

 

“I’d suggest the Great Grey over there. Loyal and strong. Clever too. You’ll like him.” The cat-boy pointed to a magnificent-looking owl in a large wire cage, before striding out of the shop, having seen what he needed.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
  


John shook his head, not really caring anymore exactly how often the impossible happened. He walked over to the owl the boy had suggested. It turned its broad face toward him, giving a low hoot. John grinned. The cat boy was right. He unlocked the cage and held out an arm. The owl looked at him for a moment before giving a small flap-hop to land on the boy’s arm, shuffling up to the broad shoulder. 

  
John turned to his escort. “This one please.” ‘Mike’ nodded and turned to the stout woman who had appeared, handing her a handful of assorted coins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably gonna skip around and ahead and such, just cause writing filler is boring.


	3. Not-so-fleeting introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are properly acquainted on the train, and we find out that John has named his owl Grendel.

“You’ve got to be joking.” John was eyeing the solid-looking brick divider with some annoyance.

 

“I don’t joke.” ‘Mike’ replied evenly.

 

“I’m supposed to just run into the wall.” There was a note of impatience and incredulity in John’s voice.

 

“Indeed.”

 

“You go first. Just so that I know that you’re not buggering with me.” John said, sounding rather defeated.

 

“Fine.” ‘Mike’ straightened his coat and walked briskly at the wall, vanishing right as he would have come into contact with it.

 

“Oh, sod it.” John muttered, checking to make sure Grendel’s cage wouldn’t fall off (Grendel was the owl’s name), and ran at the barrier, closing his eyes at the moment of impact. Except there wasn’t one. His momentum continued, and he opened his eyes, gasping at the sight of the gleaming crimson steam engine that sat on the tracks.

 

“John! This way.” ‘Mike’ gestured for John to follow him to the first car, handing the trunk that held his belongings to the man waiting at the door. John took Grendel out of his cage and let him perch on his shoulder, wanting to keep his new pet close at hand, as he boarded the train. 

 

“Just find a compartment and sit down. You’ll be there before you know it.” ‘Mike’ assured him, saluting with his brolly as he vanished into the crowd.

 

“Right… Just find an empty compartment.” John muttered to himself. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It took ages. The train was moving by the time he found one, near the back of the train. He plopped himself down next to the window with a sigh. “That was harder than it should have been, huh Grendel?” The owl hooted in response and started preening, a long striped wing stretched out in front of him.

 

“Hey, you mind if I sit here? Nobody else wanted me in their compartment.” John looked up, and his breath caught in his throat. Standing a the compartment door was the boy from the pet shop, dark curls swaying with the movement of the train.

 

“Oh, I remember you. You’re the boy from the pet shop.” The boy’s voice was surprisingly low, considering he was only John’s age, or maybe a touch younger. “I never caught your name.” He abandoned the door, shutting it behind him. 

 

“Oh, uh. John Watson. And this is Grendel.”John gestured to the owl, who looked up from his preening and hooted at the cat-boy, as if in greeting. The cat-boy laughed. 

 

“He’s more charismatic and talkative when he’s out of his cage, apparently.” The deep, rolling laugh echoed in the small compartment.

 

“Indeed.” John found himself grinning along, the boy’s laughter being somewhat infectious.

 

“My name’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And this is Leia.” Sherlock reached around behind him and lifted a fruit bat from the fabric of his dark charcoal Belstaff. The bat chittered happily, her fox-esque face seemed to be split by a smile as she gave a couple of flaps to hang from the bars on the ceiling. 

 

“Oh, how cute!” John giggled, scratching behind Leia’s long ears. “She’s so soft!” He exclaimed.

 

“Indeed.” Sherlock had lowered his gaze to his lap, producing one of the textbooks John had seen at the bookstore ‘Mike’ had dragged him into while they were in Diagon Alley.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Out of curiosity, is there a connection between wand woods and cores and the personalities and qualities of the wizard or witch they choose?” John broke the silence after maybe fifteen minutes.

 

“Yes. For example, my mother is strong, courageous, and loyal. Thus, she was chosen by a wand of English oak, with a core of Unicorn tail hair. The wand of a wizard often reflects the true personality of its wielder. Mine is Pine, eleven and a half inches, with a white river monster spine core. It reflects my loner tendencies and the spells it produces are powerful and elegant.”

 

“Interesting. Can you tell me what mine means?”

 

“Probably. What are its components?” Sherlock had closed his book and was watching John with a somewhat intense curious expression as he lifted his wand from its box. 

 

“Thirteen and a quarter inches, Walnut, Dragon heartstring.” John recited, offering the taller boy the hilt of the relatively-crooked length of dark wood. Sherlock paused when he heard John recite the makeup of the intimidating-looking wand.

 

“Curious…” Sherlock gingerly took the hilt of the wand, turning it over in his hands. From a pocket of his long coat he plucked a small pocket-magnifier and examined the length of the wand, humming to himself. After about a minute, he looked up and eyed John with an expression the blonde boy couldn’t quite decipher. 

 

“This wand seems like it would be quite a foil to you. Walnut has a reputation for being highly versatile and loyal. The core - dragon heartstring, you said?” John nodded. “Interesting. Dragon Heartstring is a powerful and passionate material, bearing the capabilities for most any spell in existence. Altogether, this wand embodies strength and power, and will be difficult for anyone but you to use.” John raised his eyebrows, feeling rather confused. This sounded completely opposite to him in everything except the loyalty portion.

 

“Why would a wand like this choose someone like me? I’m muggle-born and really pretty ordinary.” His confusion was evident in his voice.

 

“I have no idea. This wand is almost the exact same as the one bonded to the infamous dark witch Bellatrix Lestrange. You’ll learn about her in The History of Magic. She was insanely powerful and bold, honestly rather admirable in her confidence and magical prowess.” Sherlock mused, handing John back his wand. 

 

“That makes no sense. Are you sure?” John asked, rather baffled.

 

Sherlock looked affronted. “Of course I’m sure.” He pursed his lips for a moment, before his expression brightened considerably and he grabbed his textbook, flipping to one of the last pages.

 

“What are you--” John was almost immediately interrupted.

 

“I’d like you to try something. It’s relatively advanced, but your wand should be able to handle it if my deductions were correct.” He held up the book, turning it for John to see.  _ Binding spells _ read the title at the top of the page. “This one here.” Sherlock pointed with a long finger at the second spell down from the top.

 

“ _ Incarcerous _ ?” John asked, glancing up at Sherlock. 

 

“Good, yes, that’s the pronunciation. Focus on me. The object of your attention is the one that ends up bound.” Sherlock put his hands on either side of his thighs on the cushioned seat. 

 

John took a deep breath and focused his eyes on the boy in front of him, lifting his wand. “ _ Incarcerous.”  _ He commanded, voice steady, but soft. Instantly, a set of thin cords shot from the end of his wand, lacing around the taller boy, firmly binding his hands together, feet together, arms to his sides, and legs together in three separate places.

 

“Good.” Sherlock grinned, testing the tightness of the thin cords. “Now repeat it, with the intention of releasing me.” He directed.

 

“ _ Incarcerous. _ ” John commanded once more, imagining the ropes falling away and vanishing. To his amazement, they did exactly that. Sherlock’s grin widened as his bindings dissolved into thin air.

 

“Yes, yes, Excellent!” He crowed, straightening his coat. “Now let me try it.” He held out his hand, asking permission to use John’s wand. John handed it over. Sherlock took it and rolled it in his hand for a moment. 

 

“First let me show you with my own wand.” He pulled out his wand - straight and slim, made of glossy pale wood. “ _ Incarcerous _ .” Sherlock uttered the word without hesitation, and John was instantly restrained. Sherlock repeated the word and the restraints dropped away. 

 

“Now with your wand.” Sherlock laid his wand in his lap, and picked up John’s wand with a flourish. “ _ Incarcerous. _ ” Nothing happened. Sherlock furrowed his brow. “ _ Incarcerous! _ ” He snarled. Still there was no result.

 

“Huh.” John held out his hand, asking for his wand back. Sherlock gave it over, looking slightly miffed at the wand’s refusal to cooperate. “It appears I was right. Still slightly annoying that it didn’t work, but I suppose that was to be expected.” He glanced out the window at the rolling pastureland that extended off into the distance. “You should probably go change into your robes. We should arrive in about fifteen minutes.” 

 

“Right then.” John nodded and gathered his robes, letting himself out into the hall and into the nearby changing room. It didn’t take him long to change, and eh came back to find the compartment door no longer clear, but dark and impermeable. He knocked twice. “Sherlock?”

 

“I’m somewhat decent. You can come in.” Came the muffled reply.

 

John let himself in and almost instantly regretted it. Apparently “somewhat decent” to Sherlock meant shirtless. John directed his eyes out the window.

 

“Oh, does this make you uncomfortable. I’d expect you wouldn’t. You have a sibling, so I expected you’d be used to it.” Sherlock noticed the faint blush creeping up John’s neck as he fumbled with the adjustment strap in the back of his cloak. “Need help with that?” He asked, shirt finally buttoned. 

 

“Oh, yeah.” John held out the cloak. Sherlock swept his eyes down John’s figure, eyes darting but neutral. John felt the flush creep higher up his neck at the probing of those intense eyes. Sherlock looked away after a moment and began adjusting various buttons and straps. He handed back the cloak after maybe forty-five seconds. 

 

“There. That should fit.” Sherlock watched as John drew it around him, fastening the hook at the top. “In return, would you help me with this? Sherlock held out a black strip of fabric. “I don’t know how to tie a tie.” He explained.

 

“Of course.” John took the tie. “Turn up your collar.” He instructed. Sherlock did so, standing perfectly still as John worked at the knot, making sure he folded it in the right places. When he was finished, he smoothed down the stiff starched collar, the ghost of a proud smile tugging at his lips.

 

The train whistle blew twice, startling John out of his wits.

 

“There we are, right on time.” Sherlock checked his watch.

 

“All students are to disembark only after the train has come to a complete stop. First years are to follow Hagrid to the lake. All others will ride the carriages to the great hall entrance and take their seats.” A pleasant floated down the corridor as the train ground to a standstill. John collected Grendel and followed Sherlock out of the compartment and out onto the platform, finding himself being led towards a hulking figure holding a lantern that shone like a spotlight.

  
“Firs’ years, this way!” The figure shouted.


	4. Now that that's sorted (Part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Greg and Molly, and Sherlock is sorted into a house he really didn't want to be in.

Sherlock strode toward the summons, knowing John was right behind him. He waved as he approached. “Hello Hagrid.” Sherlock greeted the half-giant.

 

“Sherlock! Wondered when the infamous Holmes the younger would be comin’ ter Hogwarts.” Hagrid grinned merrily. He noticed John, standing off behind and to the left of Sherlock. “Who’s this? I didn’t know you were one to make friends easily.” Hagrid gestured at the shorter boy with his pink umbrella.

 

“I - um. My name is John Watson.” John eyed the umbrella. “Out of curiosity, why does everyone carry umbrellas?”

 

“Can’t tell yer’. Not sure what you’re talkin’ about.” Hagrid shifted his stance.

 

“He’s talking about Mycroft, Hagrid.” Sherlock sounded bored as Hagrid led them to a dock surrounded by a flurry of small boats.

 

“Ah.” Hagrid grunted in response and started helping the first years into the boats.

 

“Meet me there, fella.” John mumbled to Grendle. The owl nipped his knuckle affectionately and flew off toward the grand stone castle that sat half-shrouded by mist across the lake.

 

“John, You get in here.” Hagrid gestured to the next boat in line, occupied already by a young man with hair that looked like it was made of solid burnished silver and a wisp of a girl with straight mousy-brown hair. John climbed into the boat.

 

“‘Ello. My name’s Greg, and this is Molly. I'm technically a fourth-year, but Molly insisted I come with her. She's rather shy sometimes.” The silver-haired boy introduced himself and the girl with a grin.

 

“Hello Greg, Molly. Forgive me if it’s a sensitive topic, but what’s with this?” John gestured to the odd color of Greg’s short spiked hair.

 

“Oh, I’m not sensitive about it. I have an older brother and he did it on accident. He was trying to turn his guinea pig this color. The spell backfired, and I - unfortunately - was on the receiving end of it. I sorta like it though, makes a statement.” He carded his fingers through his hair, the grin never leaving his face.

 

“Sally teases him about it all the time. They’re such close friends.” Molly spoke up from the stern of the dinghy, a shy smile gracing her delicate features.

 

“Do you know what house you’re gonna be in?”Greg asked as they were rounding a corner and making time towards the grand stone walls.

 

“House?” This was new. John hadn’t heard anything about houses.

 

“You’re sorted into one of four houses. Gryffindor is for those who value justice and bravery, Ravenclaw is for the ones who value intelligence and learning, Hufflepuff values hard work and compassion, and Slytherin values cunning and ambition.” Greg lists off, making a face during his explanation of Slytherin.

 

“I’m pretty sure I'm in Hufflepuff.” Molly piped up again.

 

“Huh.” John went silent while the boat grinds up onto the shore and the inhabitants hop out in a swirl of robes.

 

“You can go ahead Moll. I’m gonna wait for Sally and Phillip.” John was already trudging up the set of grand stone stairs. He followed the steady stream of people into the large room just past the massive oaken doors.

 

“Attention!” A tall bird-like woman stood at the second set of doors that lead beyond the room in which John found himself. A wave of quiet swept over the group, silencing all but a few stray whispers.

 

“In just a moment, I will lead you into the Great hall, where you will be sorted into one of four houses. The house you are sorted into will become your family. Any good deeds will gain points for your entire house, while any bad behaviour will cause you house to lose points. I will call you up in alphabetical order. Only come when your name is called.” The woman pushed open the large doors and led the quietly murmuring crowd into a grand room with high vaulted ceilings shrouded by an illusion of the night sky.

 

“ _Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

_But don't judge on what you see,_

_I'll eat myself if you can find_

_A smarter hat than me._

 

_You can keep your bowlers black,_

_Your top hats sleek and tall,_

_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

_And I can cap them all._

 

_There's nothing hidden in your head_

_The Sorting Hat can't see,_

_So try me on and I will tell you_

_Where you ought to be._

 

_You might belong in Gryffindor,_

_Where dwell the brave at heart,_

_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

_Set Gryffindors apart;_

 

_You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

_Where they are just and loyal,_

_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

_And unafraid of toil;_

 

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

_if you've a ready mind,_

_Where those of wit and learning,_

_Will always find their kind;_

 

_Or perhaps in Slytherin_

_You'll make your real friends,_

_Those cunning folks use any means_

_To achieve their ends._

 

_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

_And don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

_For I'm a Thinking Cap!_ ” The dusty hat in the woman’s hand finished it’s song with a cough.

 

“Anderson, Phillip.” She called. A weaselly-looking boy with slicked dark brown hair pattered up to the stool and sat down, looking somewhat like he was gonna be sick. The hat sat on his head for a moment, before announcing “ _HUFFLEPUFF_ ” Anderson  gave a visible sigh and made his way to the table adorned in black and yellow amidst polite applause.

 

\+ + +

 

“Barnes, Richard” McGonagall called, moving down the list. Sherlock tuned out the background noise and retreated into his mind, preparing himself. Not Hufflepuff, god not Hufflepuff. Not Gryffindor. Either Ravenclaw or Slytherin, preferably Ravenclaw, seeing as Slytherin was Mycroft’s house. They would see the value in his intellect in Ravenclaw. He thought of all possible questions the sorting hat may present him with, and formulated an answer for each. Finally his name was called.

 

“Holmes, Sherlock” He strode forward, the crowd parting in front of him. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as they watched this odd-looking boy sit down on the stool, back straight and face stony.

 

 _Another Holmes boy. Plenty of Intelligence, I see, and a thirst to prove yourself. You have plenty of bravery, and a soft heart under that façade._ “No I don’t.” _The Watson boy brought it out today, didn’t he._ “Shut up.” Sherlock snarled.

  
  


_Aggressive. I know exactly where to put you…_ “RAVENCLAW!” Sherlock gave a soft half-smile and slid his façade back into place, walking over to the Ravenclaw table and sitting down near the end of the table, a seat away from everyone else.

 

\+ + +

 

John waited impatiently for his name to be called. He was the second-to-last name on the list, only ahead of a tall boy named Sebastian Zenden.

  
“Watson, John” _Finally._


	5. Meeting Moriarty

John waited impatiently for his name to be called. He was the second-to-last name on the list, only ahead of a tall boy named Sebastian Zenden, who was rather frustrated, saying that his name was technically Sebastian _Moran._

 

“Watson, John” _Finally._

 

 _You_ are _interesting. Hmmm…_ John flinched a bit, feeling the hat’s consciousness rifle through John’s brain, examining this and that. _Plenty of unrealized potential, reflected by the wand that chose you. You would do well in Hufflepuff, but I feel that you may be underappreciated. You would go far in Gryffindor, but it may be slightly overwhelming. It’s your choice, Mr. Watson. Choose wisely._ John furrowed his brow, mulling over the choice he was presented. “Gryffindor.” He mumbled after a moment.

 

“Alright. GRYFFINDOR!” The hat shouted, and John gave a faint grin, going to sit at the table draped in red and gold. A scarf was thrown at him, and he caught it with a flourish. He was pounded on the back and in general given a rowdy, enthusiastic greeting

  


\+ + +

 

Sherlock heard the hat crow the word _Gryffindor_ and was instantly relieved. The blonde wouldn’t reach his full potential if he was constantly stomped on because of his house. Everyone knew that very few wizards from Hufflepuff went down in history.

 

“Are you that Sherlock kid?” A licorice-smooth Irish accent asked.

 

“Who’s asking?” Sherlock didn’t look up from the textbook he had returned to.

 

“A fan.” Sherlock made a face and looked up, meeting the large, dark-chocolate-brown eyes of the short boy who had sidled down to sit across from him. “James Moriarty. I’ve heard all about you.” The dark doe-eyes locked with his, and Sherlock froze. The dark eyes reflected a quality Sherlock had only ever seen in his own and Mycroft’s. They looked through him. Pierced his mind, and saw everything.

 

“Hey Sherlock.” John had meandered over from the Gryffindor table. “Who’s this?” There was a darker note under the overall mellow tone. Almost dangerous.

 

“I’ll talk to you later. We have much to discuss.” James winked at Sherlock and moved back to where the last boy to be called - Sebastian Zenden - had seated himself.

 

“You okay, Sherlock?” John furrowed his brows, worry written in every line of his face.

 

“Oh? Yeah. Fine.” Sherlock couldn’t shake the chills that boy had given him, and he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself.

 

“I noticed that you weren’t eating. You need to.” There was a hint of command in the blonde’s voice. _Learned it from his father… who was a military man, and wanted John to be until they learned he was a wizard. Didn’t take it too well._ Sherlock’s mind was dissecting the boy who had moved to sit across from him, taking in every detail and making deductions based on the more-or-less obvious components that were visible.

 

“How did your family take your… wizardry?” Sherlock tried to change the subject from eating. Digestion only slowed him down,

 

“With frustration.” John admitted, the darker note now replaced with a sour one. _Regret? Fear? Something along those lines._ Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded.

 

“Nevermind that. You need to eat.” John scraped half his portion of honey-glazed ham and asparagus onto Sherlock’s empty plate. “I’m not stupid. I know you were trying to change the subject so I wouldn’t make you eat.” John leveled his eyes at Sherlock, meeting the frustrated glance with a steady stare of his own. Sherlock dropped his eyes. He hadn’t realized he was hungry until he gave in and ate.

 

“What makes you think I’ll let you push me into doing things?” Sherlock mumbled, mouth full.

 

“Because my mother was a doctor, and she taught me to recognize signs of self-deprivation - intentional or not.” John stated matter-o’-factly. Sherlock relented with a half-nod and continued to eat.

 

Sherlock finished the food quickly and washed it down with a swig of water. “The sorting hat gave you a choice, didn’t he?” Sherlock remembered.

 

“I - uh… Yeah. How did you know?” There was a quizzical glance directed at Sherlock.

 

“You went from looking rather scared to more comfortable, then you furrowed your eyebrows and glanced about, but not nervously, so I assume you were thinking. Then you said something, and the hat smiled and shouted your house.” Sherlock listed, relishing being able to deduce out loud and not be called a freak or a liar.

 

“Yeah. It said I would do well in either--”

 

“Hufflepuff or Gryffindor, yes. I was thinking the same thing. I’m glad you chose Gryffindor. Often times, even when wizards or witches have immense potential, their status as a Hufflepuff often makes them feel restrained and keeps them from realizing their true power.” Sherlock speared an eClair with a knife and popped it into his mouth with a smirk.

 

“John!” A stocky fourth-year with silvery hair called from the Gryffindor table, motioning for John to come over.

  
“Sorry Sherlock. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at breakfast. You _will_ be there.” John cocked an eyebrow at the taller boy pointedly. Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply as John walked away.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Hey Greg. What’s up?” John sauntered up to the third-year and was greeted by his hair being ruffled playfully.

“Just getting you out of an awkward-looking situation.” Greg replied with a shrug.

“Sherlock’s a friend. There wasn’t anything awkward about it.” John retorted, taming his hair and crossing his arms over his cloak, which had - by some anomaly - turned from solid black to black with red trim.

Greg held up his hands in defense. “Sorry mate. Didn’t know.” He smiled faintly. “Either way, we’re about to be bustled off to the common rooms, and I wouldn’t want you to find yourself in the Ravenclaw commons. I’ve heard they’re rather hostile about intruders, whether the intrusion be intentional or not.” Greg explained, the mild grin never leaving his mouth as his eyes flicked about the blonde’s face.

“I suppose that may be true…” The blonde relented, looking over at his shoulder. Sherlock was being visited again, but this time it was by a faintly familiar tall boy with a peaked nose and wavy red hair, wearing a Slytherin-green Prefect badge. Sherlock seemed very annoyed by his presence, and his body language had gone stiff.

“Now that we are all finished, Each house’s head boy will escort all students to their respective houses. Don’t wander from the group, as Peeves enjoys pranking lone first-years.” The headmaster stood up and dismissed the crowd.

“Gryffindors, with me!” A stocky young man in Gryffindor scarlet stood up from where he sat and raised his wand, creating a thin stream of red light. He turned and strode out of the hall, leading the rest of his house through the massive doors and up a staircase to the right. “Make sure to keep your balance. The staircases like to move.” John marveled at the how smooth the marble staircase above him slid from one landing to the next with little more than a soft grating sound.

A yelp sounded from the staircase John had been watching, and a lanky shape tumbled from the lip of the ledge it had just left. Without thinking, John leaped over the banister onto the staircase not ten feet below, landing with a grunt and a roll, Someone shouted a spell, but it must have only taken partial effect as the shape slowed in its fall, but still crashed into John’s braced shoulders with considerable momentum, rolling off and onto the hard floor with a sickening _crack_ and shaking its head in a dazed manner. John held out a hand to help the figure up, and met familiar icy blue-grey eyes.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You could have been killed! What were you doing?” John fussed, checking over his friend with light fingers as the dark-haired Ravenclaw pressed a hand to his temples, wincing.

“I was… distracted.” Sherlock didn’t meet John’s eyes as the shorter boy grabbed Sherlock’s hand, turning it over and pressing two fingers to the soft skin on the belly of his wrist. He held that for a moment. John’s small hand moved from his wrist to his chin, forcing the taller boy to look at him. John’s eyes were hard and analytical, searching Sherlock’s face for a moment.

“Can you stand?” John asked, voice as hard as his eyes. He could hear the bustle of the approaching crowd.

“Yes.” Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and winced, pressing his hand back to his temple and wobbling.

“Sodding hell…” John muttered, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around the taller boy’s waist.

“Mister Watson, Step aside. Give him a moment to rest.” The Slytherin prefect who had been talking with Sherlock commanded, making to remove John from under Sherlock’s arm.

“No. He’s got all the signs of a concussion. He has to get to a medic.” John said, refusing to budge. The prefect cocked an eyebrow at him doubtfully.

“Slowed heart rate despite the fact that he just fell down two flights of stairs, unfocused eyes, headache, dizziness. I know what I’m talking about. Move!” John snapped, meeting the Prefect’s watery blue eyes fiercely. The taller boy blinked and stepped aside.

“The hospital wing is two hallways past the great hall. Madame Delacour will see to him as soon as she can.” The Gryffindor Head boy had appeared and motioned John to follow him. “Greg, Lead the rest to the commons. I’ll be back as soon as this is handled.” The silver-haired boy nodded and continued upstairs, shouting for the Gryffindors still lingering to follow him.

“C’mon mate, help me out here.” John mumbled to Sherlock, who was leaning heavily on the shorter boy’s shoulder.

“Trying.” Sherlock breathed in response, eyes barely open.

“Oh for god’s sake.” John grumbled, stopping and slinging the taller boy over his shoulders with a grunt.

“Whadd’reyou…” Sherlock slurred, sounding worse by the minute.

“I’m getting you to the hospital wing.” John replied, shifting his weight and picking up the pace while still trying to maintain a smooth gait.

“Not much further.” The Gryffindor head boy called, rounding the corner.

“Good.” John followed and was instantly greeted by a wisp of a woman with long platinum blonde hair and large blue eyes.

“Oh dear. Here, put him here.” The woman - Madame Delacour probably - ushered John over to an open bed and helped him gently arrange the lanky ravenclaw among pillows and sheets.


	7. Asking for Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft intercepts Greg Lestrade as he goes to see if John got Sherlock to the Hospital wing okay. The Slytherin Prefect says that he needs help, but everyone knows he's a believable liar. Is all he really needs a lab rat... and possibly a friend?

_ Elsewhere in the castle…  _

  
  


“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m just headed to the hospital wing to see if John got the Holmes boy there alright.” Greg assured a first year who had taken to following him about like a lost puppy. He walked in silence for a while, bouncing on his heels each time he came to a corner.

 

“Ah. Mr. Lestrade. I do believe I need to speak with you.” Greg nearly jumped out of skin when he turned a corner and was met by a tall figure outlined in a window.

 

“Cor, you startled me!” Greg gasped, a hand pressed to his collarbone.

 

“I know. I don’t need to look at you being dramatic to know that.” The silhouette turned, and Greg got a good look at the face, instantly recognizing him.

 

“You’re Sherlock’s brother. Slytherin prefect, correct?” Greg composed himself, straightening his spine and folding his arms in front of his chest.

 

“Quite. And you’re a Gryffindor fourth-year with no notably impressive credentials. Follow me.” Mycroft turned on his heel and paced down the hall, tapping one of the doorknobs and muttering a quiet word. The door swung open with a mild squeak and the prefect looked back at Greg, gesturing him in with a wave of his handsome Blackthorn wand.

 

Greg sighed quietly and did as the Prefect requested, his posture still firm and correct. “Why am I doing this?” He asked as the Slytherin lit the candles on the chandelier with a wordless flick of his wand and shut the door.

 

“Sit.” Mycroft’s eyes didn’t leave Greg as the stockier boy rolled his eyes and dropped his posture, plopping into the chair and propping his heels up on the desk.

 

“Can I at least know your name before we begin this interrogation session? I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind.” Greg drawled, meeting the elder Holmes’s piercing eyes. The sharp icy blue looked like liquid diamonds in the dull candlelight.

 

“Mycroft Holmes.” He sat down across from Greg, suddenly slumping his shoulders, reaching up to run a hand through his mostly-tame mop of ginger curls. “I… need your help.” Greg raised his eyebrows incredulously.

 

“My help?” Mycroft didn’t raise his eyes from his hands, fingers laced 

 

“Yes. I’ve been receiving threats from an anonymous source, and tracing spells don’t work.” Mycroft pursed his lips, finally lifting his eyes, expecting to see the fourth-year Gryffindor laughing. The gaze that met his were rather the opposite. Dark coffee brown eyes bored into his, stony and determined.

 

“Who the hell would threaten a Slytherin  _ prefect _ ?” There was a note of gravel in the incredulous tone.

 

“I’m not sure. That’s why I came to you. Your parents were in law enforcement, correct?” Mycroft took a deep breath and steadied his voice, his gaze held by the dark eyes of the suddenly-serious boy across from him.

 

“Yes. They taught me something about detective work, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

 

“Excellent. I need a test subject for a spell I’ve recently invented, and I’ve found that one can’t cast it on oneself. Perhaps it can aid you.” Mycroft felt a low warmth pooling in his belly as a spark of excitement turned the silver-haired boy’s eyes a lighter shade of mahogany.

  
“Brilliant. I’ve got to go find John, but I’ll meet you back here during study hall tomorrow. I’m happy to help.” A faint smile had crept along Greg’s mouth as he stood and dashed out of the room, trying to ignore the faint thrill in his belly.


	8. Mycroft's associates tend to be animaguses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but after this I am going to skip ahead to Christmas. I hate writing filler, so I'm likely to do this often.

Mycroft smothered a sigh as the Gryffindor swept out of the room. 

 

“You, Mycroft Holmes, are a  _ terrible  _ liar.” A lilting female voice sounded from somewhere behind him and he gave an almighty jump.

 

“Anthea… I should have known you would follow me.” He fought to keep the annoyance out of his voice as the young woman clicked out to the door, closing it quietly.

 

“Did you seriously think I could pass up an opportunity to watch you try to fool that - quoting your journal -  _ silver fox _ into spending time with you.” She quipped with a smile, not even flinching under the withering glare the Slytherin shot at her. “My my, if looks could kill I’d be six feet under.” Her smile morphed into something more sympathetic as she sank into the chair opposite Mycroft, laying a hand on his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry My. He wouldn't  _dare_ defy you." She winked

 

“Please don’t follow me next time. I would like our conversations to be completely classified and private.” Mycroft’s façade was back in place, and he smiled as the young woman nodded and morphed into her animagus form - a sleek siamese cat - and climbed out the window, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts


	9. "... Associating - as you so delicately put it"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly annoyed by the sprig of a certain plant following him around, Mycroft has deemed his spell safe enough to use on a human test subject, and it has a monumental effect on Greg. Unfortunately for his privacy, the Prefect may find that his spell worked just a touch better than he wanted it to.

“Mycroft… Do you realize there’s a sprig of mistletoe following you around?” Greg teased as he meandered into the Slytherin common room.

 

“Not even a minute late. You’re getting better, Lestrade.” Mycroft ignored Greg’s jab and proceeded to light the fireplace with a whispered word.

 

“Jesus, Myc. Just call me Greg. We’ve been  _associating_ \- as you so delicately put it - for months now. If I can call you Myc without being incinerated, then you get to call me Greg.” The Gryffindor stuck out his tongue in a childish manner as Mycroft regarded him, the glower reduced in its seriousness by the conspicuous sprig of white berries floating behind and to the left of him

 

“Fine… Gregory.” The Prefect relented.

 

Greg sighed. “That’s probably as close as I’m gonna get. Shall we?” He gestured at the letters in Mycroft’s lap.

 

“Yes, we shall. I refined my spell and have decided it would be safe to use on a human test subject.” He said smoothly. “Are you ready?” The blackthorn wand was in his hand, and the pronunciation on his tongue as Greg nodded, expression serious despite the mysterious glimmer behind his eyes.

 

“ _Operam Incremento._ ” The Prefect murmured, watching as Greg’s eyes lit up with white light for a moment, before the light faded and Greg rubbed his eyes, blinking.

 

“Cor, that was dizzying.” The Gryffindor commented, glancing around the room.

 

“That should be only a temporary side-effect. This spell will last about thirty minutes, so let’s start with some simple observations.” The Slytherin Prefect picked up a book from a table by the fire. “What can you tell me about the owner of this book?”

 

Greg paused, then held out his hand for the book. Mycroft handed it over, and the silver head bent over the book, examining it. It was a moment before he responded. “The owner of this book is an avid reader, having only purchased it… two days ago, judging by the condition in which the cover is in, and has almost read the entire thing. A parent - probably mother - was an English or history teacher, judging by the annotating the owner has done. Female, right-handed, short red hair in need of a trim. Artist, judging by the faint smears of pencil lead on the pages. Used a 0.5-millimeter tip ballpoint gel pen, so probably pilot brand. Muggle-born, judging by the use of a pen instead of a quill, and the relatively-recently-learned cursive suggests that the owner is a first-year, likely not well received considering that she is a muggle-born in Slytherin. Almost never happens, so she is likely very strongly suited for Slytherin. She would also have likely done well in Ravenclaw, judging by the notes and annotations in this book, so the sorting hat likely gave her a choice.” Greg snapped the book shut and handed it back to Mycroft. “How’d I do?”

 

“Excellent! Incredibly well done, Lestra--... Gregory.” Mycroft corrected himself mid-word.

 

“Did I get anything wrong?” Greg carded a hand through his silver hair, making the short spikes stand on end.

 

“Yes. The owner of this book is a first-year by the name of Arya Sharpp, a _half-blooded_ witch of surprising prowess. Everything else you said is on-the-nose. The sorting hat gave her the choice between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, and she chose Slytherin, likely deciding that she wanted to show my house that it doesn’t take pure blood to have incredibly powerful magic. Her wand is one of powerful qualities, being Laurel wood and Dragon Heartstring. She prefers to use muggle pens and pencils in her spare time, but uses a quill on school matters and assignments. She is indeed an artist, and has an aptitude for drawing dragons. Very keen in most all subjects, but has periodical rows with the teachers about something or another out of pride. She is - in fact - standing right behind you, so I will leave you to see if your deductions about her appearance were correct.” Mycroft finished.

 

Greg turned around, meeting sharp mismatched eyes as the first-year held out her hand for the book.

 

“That was impressive. May I have my book back now?” She quipped, rolling her right wrist in an expectant gesture. _Long black hair._ Greg fumed silently at himself. How could the red hair have gotten into the book then?

 

“I take it you’re wondering why the hair you found in my book was red?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

 

“Indeed. How’d you know?”

 

“I have been standing here the entire time, and I heard your deduction about my hair. I also saw the look of confusion on your face a moment ago.” The hand was still extended, and she tapped her foot impatiently.

 

Greg placed the book in her palm. “Ah.”

 

“You weren’t wrong, but you weren’t right either.” She shook her head and her hair shifted from its long straight raven tresses into a mop of short red curls into a mane of long blue waves and back to the black it had been in when she walked up. “There’s your explanation.” She tucked the book under her arm and walked off, hair swaying gently as she swept past a group of students and up the stairs.

 

“That was… Enlightening.” Greg glanced at Mycroft, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye.

 

“I admit she’s a bit… high strung. You did excellently for tonight though. I’m going to release the spell. I will meet you here at the same time tomorrow.” Mycroft waved his wand, whispering “ _Vulgaria_ ” before he swept off to his dorm, leaving a slightly dizzy Greg to find his way out, still laughing at the small sprig of mistletoe following the Prefect up the stairs.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated. Feedback is more than welcome, in fact, it's encouraged!


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